


The Cottage in the Country

by believeinsh2012



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feels, Gen, Retirementlock, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, will make you cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinsh2012/pseuds/believeinsh2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retired Sherlock tends to his bees and pays a visit to an old friend...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cottage in the Country

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fan-fic. I'm not too sure where it came from, and I almost didn't finish it because I was crying so hard, but I really enjoyed it (in a sick sort of way), and think I'll probably write some more in the future. This is only a short one so won't take you long to read, although a couple of people I showed it to said they'd like to hear more of this particular story so...might consider that at some point too.

He scraped out the sting with the edge of the fingernail on his right thumb, giving a quiet chuckle to himself. They were always very active at this time of year, easily excitable, defending their honey and their queen. Still though, he'd managed to get a good haul of honey. One by one, he carried the heavy, dripping frames through to the kitchen of the cottage, and began the slow but enjoyable process of extracting the sweet nectar, with the end result poured into small jars that continued to stack higher and higher as the hours went by.

Once the light began to change outside, Sherlock checked the time on the clock above the sink. He wanted to go before it got dark. Just as the sun went down. It was more pleasant, less people. He hated other people being there. 

With a small weary sigh, he washed his hands free of the honey and reached for the old tattered Belstaff hung over the back of the door, shrugging it onto his shoulders and looping the dusty blue scarf around his neck.

He kept his head down on the short walk through the village. He didn't particularly feel like talking to anyone and having to listen to their minor and obvious problems they may or may not present for him to 'solve'. They were hardly cases, but then, he didn't take cases anymore. He was far too old to be running round after criminals and besides, it wasn't the same without John. It never had been.

The pain and the anger still raged in his heart, like someone was twisting a knife round in the centre of his chest. It never really went away, but it was always stronger when he was here, more intense. The guilt, too. The guilt was almost crippling. He blamed himself. He always had done. If he'd been quicker, smarter, got there sooner, none of this would have happened. Then there was the regret. All those what ifs and maybes, thoughts of what could have been, what /they/ could have been. 

He stood perfectly still, his hands in his pockets, just staring. 

He'd never forgotten that afternoon all those many years ago, when he'd watched from a distance and overheard John talking to his grave, saying all those emotive words, willing him not to be dead. At the time, he didn't fully comprehend what John was going through, what he'd had to suffer after watching him take the topple from St Bart's.

He knew now.

He couldn't do it, though. He couldn't do what John had done. All that...talking. He wanted to. There'd been many occasions in the last eighteen months when he'd opened his mouth to say something, but the words just vanished, choked at the back of his throat. Expressing his emotions had never been easy. It was even harder now.

Sherlock took a few steps closer and crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet with his knees bent, coat trailing in the mud. He reached out his right hand and traced the edges of John's name in the stone with his fingers, his eyes stinging slightly. The pollen always got to him when he came here, made them water.

He opened his mouth and took a breath, as if to speak. Then closed it again. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to say. 

He loved John. He loved him with every single fibre in his body, with every breath he had left in him and if he could swap places and have John alive and him inside that grave he'd do so in a heartbeat. Because John was special and important and amazing, brave and incredible and loyal and all those things Sherlock couldn't be, could never be. Not without him. He needed him. He needed his John, and he missed him so much he sometimes wished he wouldn't wake up in the morning. But he carried on. He carried on because he knew that was what John would have wanted, would have called him an idiot for thinking anything else. He had to get on with his life.

Sherlock didn't say any of this.

After several minutes of silence, he stood up and took two steps backwards, putting some more distance between him and the headstone. He stared down at the ground for a moment, frowning. Then he looked up, took a slow, measured breath, and said what he always said.

"Goodbye, John."

And with that, he swiftly turned and strode out of the graveyard, heading back to the small cottage he always dreamed they would share together.


End file.
